If Wishes Were Earls (14 page)

“Neither had I.” Roxley said, while Hotchkin once again reached for his ever-present pen and ink.

“We need to get to the bottom of this and quickly,” Howers said, frowning at this development. “Hotchkin—a dossier on the man. On my desk by tomorrow.”

Chaunce’s assistant grinned with delight. Impossible assignments made the young man wiggle like an excited puppy

This wasn’t the end of Howers’s orders. He turned to Roxley. “I suggest you get Lady Essex out of London and away from this Whenby. Immediately. At least until we know his motives.”

Roxley nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. She’s ready to return to Foxgrove after—”

Now suddenly the break-in at his house held a different and startling implication. What had the fellow from Bow Street said?

It seems as if they had something in mind they were looking for.

He turned toward the low embers in the grate. And if they were willing to come break into his house . . . If whoever was responsible for this was willing to kill—again he was assailed by the image of those narrow coffins, lying side by side in the back of the wagon—it wasn’t just his life at risk, but the lives of his aunts, and anyone close to him.

Which meant it was imperative that Harriet be as far away from all this as he could send her. China, perhaps. If he failed in that, she’d be in that carriage with his aunt on the morrow if he had to personally stuff her in a trunk and tie it shut.

No doubt Mingo would be delighted to help.

Meanwhile, Howers was still issuing orders. “Roxley, you need to question your aunts. In person. This isn’t a fit subject for a letter.”

The earl nodded in agreement. A letter could be intercepted, as could a reply. And while he began to make preparations for the trip—a list of things he’d need done—he remembered one point of order.

“I cannot go,” he blurted out.

“Whyever not?” Lord Howers blustered, looking up from the instructions he was giving Hotchkin. “If it is this marriage nonsense, I’ll call on this Murray person in the morning and set him straight. Blackmailing nobility, indeed! I won’t have it.”

Roxley hadn’t even gotten to the problem of Murray’s demands yet. He had a more pressing problem. His aunts. Glancing around the room, he knew he’d have to confess one last matter.

That while he might be the Earl of Roxley, head of his family and heir to all, in most matters his aunts still looked upon him as their orphaned nephew in short pants.

Especially one.

But there was no leaving off now, not when his friends were willing to help.

Even if it meant the worst sort of humiliation. The sort they’d cast up in the years to come.

Well, at least Preston would.

“My Aunt Eleanor and Aunt Oriel have refused me entrance the last two times I’ve come to call. Say they won’t allow me in until I bring them a bride.”

“Then get yourself engaged to this Miss Murray,” Howers pressed. “Without delay.”

Roxley had been afraid the man would say that.

Chapter 6

Meddling is never wrong when it is put to good purpose.

Miss Darby to her best friend, Miss Cecilia Overton

from Miss Darby’s Reckless Bargain

H
arriet came downstairs the next morning to find Lady Essex already arisen and in a conquering mood.

Her panic from the night before had been replaced with the steely resolve of Nelson shaking off a minor setback. Nor had she any interest in departing for Kempton.

“Return? Whatever for?” she’d asked when Harriet had broached the subject. “Miss Hathaway, we just arrived.” She paused and slanted a challenging glance directly at Harriet. “I would think you of all people would want to stay.”

Stay? And watch Roxley marry another?
No, thank you
, she wanted to tell the lady.

Of course then she would have to venture into the other unmentionable subject: Roxley’s financial straits.

Or worse, the state of her broken heart.

So they had spent the morning hours visiting Lady Essex’s favorite milliner, her modiste, and a warehouse that a friend had recommended. No Town hours for the old girl.

As she kept saying, “There is much to do.”

Apparently so.

With Lady Essex’s shopping completed, they had returned to the house on Hill Street and she’d immediately begun ordering Harriet and Miss Manx about, in order to have everything ready for her “afternoon in.”

Throughout this mad scramble, every time the bell jangled, the front door was opened, Harriet braced herself for the sight of Roxley—his long-legged stride, his rakish smile, that wry twinkle in his eyes as if he always found the world around him utterly amusing.

Pausing before a bowl of flowers that Lady Essex had asked her to rearrange, Harriet realized something.

Not once during the previous night had Roxley smiled.

Oh, he’d made a show of gallantry, his lips upturned, but he hadn’t smiled—not like he usually did.

Like he did for her. Like he had that first night he’d kissed her in the Timmonses’ garden. Or as he had at Owle Parke when they’d . . .

She turned and glanced across the salon, where Lady Essex was rearranging the teacups on the sideboard, only to find the old girl watching her. That wry glance that was a Marshom characteristic. In that moment, she swore she could hear Lady Essex’s battle cry,
There is much to be done
.

Harriet shivered and went back to the rebellious peonies in front of her, their grand blossoms falling this way and that.

Did the old girl mean for her, Harriet, to save Roxley? Had that been the reason for this hasty and utterly unplanned trip to London?

Harriet wouldn’t put it past Lady Essex to put her oar in where it wasn’t wanted. Then again, Harriet rather subscribed to the same philosophy.

Sometimes, one just had to butt in.

And Harriet couldn’t think of a situation that cried out more for some sort of intervention. If only to see Roxley smile yet again.

But however could she manage such a feat?

You could entice him to kiss you
, a wry voice offered.

Oh, it was a ruinous task, but Harriet was rather up for the challenge, especially when Fiske came in and announced their first callers.

“Lady Kipps and Miss Murray, my lady.”

“Right on schedule,” Lady Essex muttered under her breath, as she glanced over at Harriet and gave her a slight nod that seemed to say,
Do what you do best
.

So Harriet did.

T
he salon at No. 10, Hill Street filled quickly, for the news of the burglary had spread through the
ton
as if on wings.

From the servants’ halls, through the mews and to every breakfast table in London, or so it seemed.

The tidbit had run the gamut: from the truth, that Roxley’s house had been broken into and the ruffians chased off; to wild tales that the entire residence had been ransacked; armed marauders had invaded, injuring one of the footman and making off with one of the maids, who was presumed . . . well, it was too terrible to say what was presumed of the poor girl.

Harriet’s favorite tale, brought courtesy of Lady Knolles, was that a grand cache of diamonds had been stolen—a bouncer of a story that had Lady Essex barking with laughter.

“My dear baroness,” Lady Essex managed between guffaws, “if Roxley had diamonds in this house, my sisters and I would not be gadding about merely in pearls.”

“I still think it is ever so alarming,” Lady Kipps told one and all. “I demanded just this morning that Kipps hire extra footmen. I would be inconsolable if I were to lose my emeralds.”

“As I am sure, Lord Kipps would be just as inconsolable,” Roxley added from the doorway.

Harriet caught hold of the arms of her chair to keep from bounding up at the sight of him—everything about him so very familiar—the crinkle in his brow, the way he always leaned against the door jamb, all jaunty mischief.

Roxley, you’re here
, she wanted to cry out, as she’d done many a time at the Pottage when he’d come to visit.

And yet she couldn’t. For he wasn’t her Roxley anymore.

At least for the time being.

Lady Gudgeon, who had made her entrance right behind Lady Kipps and Miss Murray, brightened noticeably. She’d been a bit put out to be the second party to arrive—not getting the first account of the dire news—but Roxley’s appearance assured her a delicious and irresistible
on dit
to drop at the rest of her visits. “Oh, Lord Roxley,” she scolded. “A husband must be sympathetic to our delicate natures, yet when I asked the baron the very same thing this morning—to hire more footmen—he was unmoved.”

Roxley strolled into the room and bowed slightly to his aunt before he turned back to Lady Gudgeon. “He should be chastened for such a callous disregard, my dear lady. For you are a jewel to be protected.”

The old girl blushed, the silk flowers in her hat swaying this way and that, like the peonies in the bowl behind her.

“Aunt Essex, I’m surprised to find you still here,” Roxley said. “You had said last night—”

“So now you’ve taken to listening to me, have you Roxley?” she shot back. “I simply changed my mind. Besides, I could hardly drag Miss Hathaway away from Town—not when she has so much to accomplish.” The lady smiled at Harriet and then back at Roxley. “But I am so glad you’ve come to call. Do take a seat. There is one right there next to Harriet.”

Harriet watched this exchange with some delight. No one could get under Roxley’s skin the way his Aunt Essex could.

Nor could he protest her change of plans—not right here in front of every gossip in London—so he had no choice but to sit.

Right next to Harriet.

“Miss Hathaway,” he murmured as he took his seat, his leg brushing against her skirt. It was all very innocent, yet his touch sent shockwaves of memories through her.

Their limbs entwined, his bare skin against hers. Lips dancing together and then blazing new paths of exploration.

And yet, now they must be ever so proper. Ever so distant.

“My lord,” she replied, hoping she wasn’t blushing with the same heat uncoiling inside her, clamoring for him to ignite the fire once again.

Across the room, Miss Damaris Dale, who had made a rare appearance, spared Roxley a quizzing glance and then another at Miss Murray, as if she appeared to be weighing the validity of such a match, a subject she wasn’t afraid to bring up.

“I would say that this matter of burglaries and ruffians is hardly fit for some of us,” she said, well, more like decreed. “Might we discuss something more interesting.” Again, it wasn’t a request. With that she turned her calculated gaze back on Roxley. “I have heard that felicitations will soon be in order.”

Harriet stiffened. This was the last subject she wanted to discuss, but apparently she was the only one who held such an opinion, for immediately the gathered ladies burst into a cacophony of hints, and veiled congratulations lofted toward Miss Murray and the earl.

“Is it true there is to be an imminent announcement?” Lady Gudgeon pressed, her eyes glittering like those of a hawk.

Harriet pursed her lips. Of course the old busybody would ask such an impertinent question.

For her part, Miss Murray blushed prettily, keeping her gaze modestly fixed on her hands, which were folded in her lap—while she let her friend convey a hint of what was to come.

“I do believe, it will be very soon indeed that I won’t be the newest countess about Town,” Lady Kipps said, preening a bit as if the entire match was of her making.

Here was one oar that Harriet would like to happily dump in the Thames.

After she snapped it in half.

But it was Lady Essex who stormed into the fray with her own sort of oar. “An announcement? Why, of all the foolish notions,” she said, shaking the skirt of her gown as if it was suddenly covered in scone crumbs. When her verdict was met with nothing but stunned silence and more than one gaping mouth, she sighed as if she had never met such a score of nitwits.

Including her nephew.

She directed her gaze at Roxley. “There can be no announcements before there has been a mustering.”

What the devil that was, Harriet hadn’t the least notion, but Roxley’s wide-eyed shock said all too clearly he knew exactly what his aunt meant. Indeed, he looked as if his aunt had just asked him to take off his jacket and his boots and prop his stocking-clad feet up on the low table before one and all.

“Marshoms and their musterings,” Damaris Dale muttered with some animosity, but no one other than Harriet seemed to hear her, for everyone was focused on Lady Essex, who smiled slightly now that she had the attention of everyone in the room.

Lady Gudgeon—who could scent gossip through the stench of the Southwark stews—rushed to ask, “Whatever is a mustering?”

Looking around at her bewildered guests, Lady Essex explained. “A mustering is a long-held Marshom family tradition. When the heir or holder of the earldom decides to . . .” She glanced over at Miss Murray and seemingly got stuck on the words
take a bride
. Instead said more vaguely, “ . . . continue our lineage, the family is given the opportunity to meet and consider his potential countess to ensure she meets our high standards—”

Over to the right, old Damaris Dale was off and running yet again, muttering, “For card cheats and gadabouts.”

If she heard, Lady Essex ignored her by finishing with “—for demeanor and nobility.”

“Why, how positively medieval!” Lady Gudgeon declared with a little too much delight.

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Lady Kipps said, smiling over at Miss Murray, “when it is obvious the earl is about to take a most advantageous step.”

“A mustering.” Roxley said the words as if testing them for himself, and then a sly smile turned at his lips.

Harriet’s eyes narrowed. Whyever was he being so agreeable over this?

Suddenly she wished herself seven again and back at Foxgrove. She wouldn’t pull her punches this time.

“I will not see our family traditions tossed to the wayside, Roxley,” Lady Essex told him, her voice rising. “Mustering it is. Or there will be no more talk of announcements.” This statement was aimed squarely at Miss Murray, and then at Lady Kipps.

“Dearest Aunt Essex,” Roxley said, all roguish charm. “I must thank you for reminding me of my duty and obligation to my family. You are correct, a mustering is the only proper thing to be done.”

“It is?” Harriet and Miss Murray both demanded at the same moment.

The two of them exchanged wary glances, but having the upper hand—a dowry that would make a princess weep with envy—Miss Murray continued in a more gracious manner. “Whatever does this mustering require?”

Of course, being a
cit
’s daughter, she’d want to get to the point of the transaction.

As for Harriet, whatever this mustering was, she hoped it involved musket fire, and long, tiring marches through Seven Dials.

Lady Essex happily supplied the particulars. “It requires the lady to meet the various members of the immediate family so they can form an opinion as to her merits, likely character, and advantages.”

Again there was a snort from Damaris Dale that made it clear she found the entire notion of the Marshoms being overly picky about a likely bride—especially one of Miss Murray’s pedigree and purse—quite amusing.

Everyone chose to politely ignore the old girl.

Not that they weren’t thinking exactly the same thing.

Including Miss Murray. But she wasn’t about to naysay Lady Essex on the issue. “Why, it seems quite reasonable. Perhaps my companion—once she has recovered from her recent accident—can send round invitations—”

“Oh, no, no, Miss Murray,” Lady Essex told her. “This isn’t something accomplished over a single meal. A mustering is far more complicated.”

Harriet perked up. Complicated? Her hopes for a mention of muskets, mayhap a bit of dueling, were renewed . . .

“Now let me see,” Lady Essex said, pursing her lips. “I suppose you have it quite easy—for there is only myself and my sisters left.”